Somewhere in a secluded place in the Empire, a man in an elegant blue jacket with goldwork embroidery adorning his clothing, including the outer hemlines of his pants, kneels before a strange, distorted sculpture resembling the roots of a river-dwelling tree. The material is the true mystery, as the greatest alchemists in the world cannot identify the jewel-like substance. And, cradled atop the marblesque idol is a seeming gemstone only a few are permitted to even gaze upon, less they go instantly mad and attack everything in sight in a blind fury until they die of exhaustion, starvation, or being slain.

However, as one of those privileged few, this man knows the truth of the precious jewel.

He knows not the identity of its former owner, nor where it resides now. He only knows that it is the true power of this world, and it is lying in wait for the time to return.

The artifact in question is the mysteriously crystalized eye of a being beyond normal comprehension.

The eye itself possesses an amber color, which only reveals itself when the Great One awakens and turns his gaze upon the lowly servants slowly and quietly spreading the Great One’s influence throughout the world.

For the moment, the eye is strangely featureless, which is why many typically think it is only a jewel.

That said, it is a friar’s duty to stand watch over the Great One’s eye to receive orders.

Suddenly, the doors to the cathedral open, and deceptively light footsteps tap and echo in the large chamber, following a strange path along the outside perimeter.

A soft voice urgently speaks, barely sounding much above a whisper, but in fact, having a normal volume. “Master… I bring concerning news.”

“What is it?” asks the friar as he continues to kneel, waiting for orders. He is the friar supplicant chosen for the time being to stand in wait, and it is only the third of his fourteen day period.

“The Priestess appears to have been captured.”

This causes his eyes to snap open, and he looks towards the source of the voice, but finds only inky black shadows under the arcades of the walls. The being is a drider, a master of darkness, favoring stealth in all aspects of their lives, including walking on walls to avoid being easily detectable or reachable by potential enemies. “Captured? Are you certain?”

“Yes. The Mendicant lost contact with both the marksman and the priestess while trying to ambush the otherworlder.” Her voice is soft spoken, but carries the urgency all the same, even hidden in the shadows. The light of the room comes primarily from the Great One’s eye, and as long as others remain out of the light and don’t look directly at the Eye, they can maintain their sanity, which is why a blind drider was chosen for running messages and aiding the friar.

The man allows his jaw to free-float, and his left molars tap idly while he thinks. He looks at his cufflinks, which depict a hairless man’s head with the ancient elemental symbol for water. All of the friars work together, of course, but the elements serve as cells so that any one captured cannot compromise the others, which is why they never meet in person except in passing when turning over the cathedral. With it, any of the other five friars can kill the sixth by activating the curse of their cameo, regardless of where they are. The same goes for subordinates, though it can be difficult to kill subordinates because their disposable nature means they can be difficult to track down and identify the correct one in the records. Additionally, a great many of their missions require mobility that could be seen as treacherous, but are in fact strategies to accomplish the goal. Additionally, using the cameos to kill low-ranking subordinates would draw more attention to the friars, and with the Fievegal already suspicious, they can’t be reckless about revealing the fact that the servants of the Great One can be so easily killed, or they will develop precautious.

No, instead, we’ll go with a more… chaotic method.

A smirk forms on the friar of water’s face.

“Summon the choir boys. Bring me the Dragon-tongue Scepter, Falkorgakhon.”

“As you wish, Master.” The presence of the drider disappears for a time, and the friar turns his gaze back to the Great One’s eye. He murmurs, “Oh, Great One. Forgive this impertinent, lost soul for speaking out of turn, but I humbly request your all-knowing Gaze. It seems, even now, the otherworlder is beyond our understanding. He has escaped our efforts to corral or exterminate him once more.”

There is a long moment of silence, which is not unusual. The Great One will go months, and sometimes even years without saying a single word to the friars. All the same, they have upkept this ritual since their gathering, lest the Great One abandon them altogether.

Suddenly, he can feel the lighting change. It grows brighter in the room, but narrows in focus until the amber-yellow iris appears with a pupil that can only be described as that of a goddess with its complex, woven pattern seeming to serve no biological purpose for its complexity, but seemingly hypnotising all who fall into its stare. That pupil is fixed on the friar of water at present, and it studies him in further silence. The Great One’s eye looks like a proper eye now, and yet, it is one that can see through all, down to the smallest detail.

“Have you anything of worth to offer, or do you merely wish to hear my voice tell you that which you already know? Since you have called for me, I will speak as if it’s the latter. You are nothing more than a worthless insect scrambling around in the light of my gaze. If you knew that you would fail, would you have obeyed my orders so zealously? Or, would you convince yourself, like many before you, that you have something I NEED?” The mysterious elder god’s voice echoes upon itself, sounding almost like a chorus, but having no difference in pitch or tone, as if the same voice was cloned dozens or hundreds of times and offset only slightly like a crowd of the same person.

The friar can feel his head being forced to look by an unseen hand, as if by his childhood etiquette teacher, towards the grim collection that all friars do their best to put out of their minds.

There, stacked in neat rows, are the ‘friars who never were’. Most of them have pristine, clean skulls, of which the majority are human, just like the current friar of the water. A few of the skulls have been shattered, with the fragments cradled in whatever parts are still the most intact. And, a few more have more obvious blood stains or lingering tissue on them.

“I-I assure you, Great One, that no such lesson is necessary! Such thoughts would never cross my mind!”

The voice from the eye scoffs as its own gaze returns from the collection to stare down at the friar. “For all the thousands of times I’ve heard that phrase… Well, what is it you desire?”

“If we were meant to fail, why pit us against the otherworlder at all? He is now aware of our existence, and it seems he is more prepared to search than we thought.”

“Than YOU thought. However, your actions have not been without use. Even if I must discard all of you ‘friars’, there will always be a new religion.”

The mysterious, deep voice chuckles, filling the room around the friar as if the Great One is present all around him. He trembles lightly, but he can’t stop himself from clenching his fists.

No. I will endure this. It is nothing but words. The real goal is ahead, and when that time comes… I’ll see to it that our roles reverse.

The Great One’s presence seems to settle around the eye once more, and it speaks again. “Did you know that emotions… hmmm… ‘flavor’ mana? I suspect you didn’t. Not even those ageless fairy-humanoids likely can discern the difference. Continue carrying out your instructions as they are.”

“But, the Harbinger of Calalmity…” starts the friar before he is cut off by the Great One’s voice mocking him.

“‘The Harbinger of Calamity’? Indeed, we should be so grateful if his name holds out to be true. For, if he is my Harbinger,...” The pupil narrows, and with it, the light coming from the eye becomes blinding, and the friar can no longer look at the relic of his god. “...Then my arrival will be all the sooner.” The voice became very dark towards the end, echoing upon itself with distortions and changes in pitch, still belonging to the same voice, but as if spoken across different times in that being’s life.

“If you are so weak as to need guidance on your next step, kill the captured servant and all she enthralled, and when the Harbinger lets his guard down, you may strike once more. The serpent does not advance and peck like a bird, but waits and strikes once without miss. That is why a serpent can strike even those larger than itself. It controls when and how it strikes.”

With that, the gaze of the eye goes distant, and the pupil seemingly expands until the whole orb is black, before the color fades and it returns to its usual amber glow.

The friar lets out the breath he was instinctively holding. It’s a struggle at times to remember to breathe when in the presence of the Great One’s mere gaze. He sometimes idly wonders what it would be like to actually lay eyes on the full form of the Great One. Since its eyeball is larger than the friar’s torso, the god he is reverent to must have been titanic.

Now then, where is that servant with the scepter?

***

Most of the low-ranking servants in the church of the Great One are taken in as orphans, destitute nobles, disillusion pages and defiled maids, and the occasional feral child.

When she was a child, there was one word with meaning that the drider learned; “Ochibenara”. It took her many years to realize that this was her name, long after coming to the church and hearing mention of a drider. A woman came looking for a drider by the name of “Ochibenara”, and the one currently making her way to the lower prayer room where the choir boys will be found realized that she was hearing it because it was also her name.

Obviously, she spent her entire conscious life alone, abandoned by the things others called ‘mother’, ‘father’, and ‘family’, needing to eat whatever she could to survive until the church found her. Since many beings share names, she never once believed for a second that the woman was looking for an orphan such as herself. But, she is grateful to that half-humanoid spider woman for revealing the truth about “Ochibenara”, meaning that, if nothing else, one of Ochibenara’s parents at least spared the minimal effort required to give her a name.

That said, her name is her only possession. Servants of the church have no names once they become initiated members. They are disposable pawns of the Great One, so they have no need for unique names. When called upon by those of higher rank, they serve. That is all.

In the present, Ochibenara clings to her name as the last vestiges of a memory of happiness that she has never been able to forsake. She can’t remember the face of her mother or father, if she ever had such things, but someone gave her a name, and she remembers a warm feeling she hasn’t felt in many years.

Ochibenara finds the choir boys in the lower prayer room, all kneeling around a statue carved by one of the past friars depicting the Great One. The statue itself has few features of note, and it could easily be mistaken as some sort of decorative stone carving of a plant or some kind of tribal fire. For one who has overheard explanations of the cobbled-together descriptions of the Great One that the friars allegedly had visions of, Ochibenara can recognize a head that has eight big triangular horns, an ambiguous series of dips that could represent as many as ten eyes, fourteen flame-like shape-shifting arms similar to those of the Strylak, and great angelic wings too large to see the feathers as anything other than needles.

All of these features are present in the stone carving, but can be admittedly difficult to discern if the viewer isn’t already aware of what they’re supposed to be. Ochibenara is not a particularly cynical person, but she is rational. And, she would be remiss to overlook the most simple possibility.

The ‘artist’ of the sculpture was not artistically gifted.

That said, it’s the closest thing any of the choir boys will ever see to the Great One with their own eyes, which is more than what can be said for Ochibenara. She has some memories of being able to see, but she doesn’t recall when or how she lost her eyesight. She has felt the statue of the Great One in secret to form a mental image, but she had to do that in secret. And, as for how she navigates normally, she has a fairly good sense of where her surroundings are from a combination of physical touch through her paw-like scopulae and tarsal claws, air currents on the hairs of her legs and thorax, and if she’s really desperate, she can ‘throw’ threads of her webbing out to drift through the air for a bit before she carefully and meticulously retracts them, which can tell her a rather detailed layout of her surroundings if she’s slow and steady about the process. It’s time consuming, and she must remain still, but if she does it from the ceiling of a room, she can accomplish the task with ease while remaining undetected.

Her soft voice carries a volume just as loud as a normal person’s, but is often described as seeming like a whisper. “Choir boys, you have been called upon to retrieve the sacred scepter Falkorgakhon, and bring it to the friar.”

Without a word, the young boys and men rise to their feet. Though called ‘choir boys’, these males of various races do not sing hymns during Holy Day gatherings. They have a very specific duty surrounding the staff in question, and Ochibenara follows them as they descend deeper into the temple to where the scepter is kept.

She has only visualized the artifact through her ability to ‘see’ with air currents around her, no matter how miniscule. It’s not as beautiful as being able to truly see, certainly, but she has a pretty good idea of why the choir boys are necessary.

The rumors that the servants all share, especially those who have seen the scepter, claim it is a cursed living being, bound in its form and desperate to get out. Only choir boys singing an ancient song can keep the staff from expelling massive amounts of mana, enough to poison and kill or mutate any living things nearby on the spot. There are stories of a creature called Bledenecarr, as well as an evil spirit known as Shiuluka were both spawned of former friars that did not ensure to keep Falkorgakhon in its eternal slumber. Even in hibernation, Falkorgakhon is a powerful magical tool, but if it awakens, a thousand times the magical power is wielded by the scepter in an unquenchable rampage.

Or, so the stories go.

The group arrives at a hot spring deep within the temple. The water bubbles regardless of whether or not the spring is allowed to flow, though, the most obvious cause is the staff itself.

One last tool of ‘seeing’ exists for Ochibenara, but it consumes a great deal of her mana, so she can only use it for a short period of time. And, while most users of this magic apparently use it to try to see the future, she has mastered using it to see the present.

Ochibenara delves into the mana of the world, able to remain standing thanks to her eight spider legs and her low center of gravity from her large thorax. Her humanoid upper half simply appears to be praying, while she uses magic to witness everything through the mana of the world, just as her mind dreams using her memories of what ‘sight’ really is.

The tone starts soft and melancholy. A low combination of deep “ooo”s and “aaah”s that sweep through the cavern-like space around the hot spring. The choir boys are starting their ancient song, preparing to withdraw the strange artifact from the scalding waters.

It is said choir boys are incapable of speech, since most of them have had their tongues cut out. Instead, they only can produce the Ancient Song, which has no translation in any modern language. Even comprehension magic doesn’t work on it.

Regardless, it can be taught, and has been passed down for generations among the choir boys to maintain the scepter.

Once the song enters its continuous rhythm, the chosen staff bearer steps forward, dressed down only to his loincloth. His skin is scarred from scalding wounds, indicating this is not his first time in the hot spring. Regardless, the choir boy sings along with his bretheren as he takes the first step into the near-boiling water. He flinches with the first step, but resolves washes over his face, and he takes another step in. Every new step ramps up the surface area of his pain, and yet, he overcomes with sheer willpower and dedication to his role. Ochibenara has no idea why the hot water is necessary for the scepter, as it apparently doesn’t need to be sung to while it is in the hot spring. But, once it leaves the waters, the song must continue until it is returned to the hotspring.

Even with the water slowly cooking his skin like a boiled chicken, he trudges forward with his arms up out of the water, making his way to the center of the pool where the artifact slumbers. The chosen boy appears around seventeen years old, but with the expression of a hardened fifty year old warrior who has spent decades on the battlefield.

The boy carefully takes hold of the scepter, which is difficult to ‘see’, even for Ochibenara, because the world in the present Dawnsight she is using, it is merely the present. She is expending over 10,000 times the energy required to simply see the same things those with sight would already be able to observe. And, the bubbling water distorts the view of the scepter until it is removed from the spring itself.

Once it emerges, Ochibenara is able to see the artifact, or rather, the being, in its true form.

It’s difficult to truly call Falkorgakhon a mere object. It has a raw, mortal quality to it, like a thick root of a plant or the organ of a living being. But, something is even more eerie about its appearance.

For some reason, seeing it makes Ochibenara nauseous every time she lays eyes upon it, even through the magic of Dawnseeing.

It shape seems to have… features. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or distortions of the spell. Perhaps even plants have something akin to a soul.

But, Ochibenara would swear that Falkorgakhon has dark spots representing incomplete eyes, ridges starting the openings of ears, and even appendages tucked against its ‘body’, numbering five distinct appendages in total, if that were the case. Calling it a scepter is a massive stretch because of this, as Falkorgakhon holds a knobbly, bumpy form. She can easily see why it is compared to a living being.

Especially when it squirms.

No… That… has to be a trick of the spell,... right?

The chosen boy emerges from the pool and hands off the scepter to one of the other choir boys, who is continuing in tune with the others as they all sing the song. The one who entered the bath collapses to his knees to rest from his skin burning from the water, while another stays behind to nurse him.

The rest of the choir boys make their way, continuing the song indefinitely as they walk, and Ochibenara follows them. Falkorgakhon twitches and squirms a little, while the boy carrying it holds it somewhat like a child. He is the oldest of the group, but still no older than a teenager, yet he cares for the scepter with a great deal of reverence.

Now that she’s on the move again, her perception of the world is limited to the air currents and touch of her ‘feet’ as Ochibenara clings to the walls above the group. She has a habit of favoring walls, rather than the floor, because it allows her a greater range of escape if she needs to flee from any threats.

Soon enough, the procession of choir boys reaches the main cathedral, where the friar remains kneeling in front of the Great One’s artifact. The boy carrying Falkorgakhon steps into a ritual circle, where he kneels and gently sets the scepter down, keeping his eyes closed and his head bowed. He then backs out of the light emitted by the Great One before rejoining the group in singing to fill the hall with the ancient song at a controlled volume that allows speaking, but still ensures the ancient scepter remains dormant.

In Ochibenara’s lifetime, or at least, her time in the church, which is most of it, Falkorgakhon has never awakened, but she knows enough to know she doesn’t want to experience it.

The friar finally leaves the Great One’s artifact, kneeling to pick up Falkorgakhon gently. He walks with it to the center of the room, and he begins performing an enchantment, speaking at a volume that roughly matches the singing of the choir boys.

Naturally, the song cannot stop for anything, which means the mage performing any ritual with Falkorgakhon must walk a delicate line between being audible to the world’s mana and quiet enough not to wake the slumbering scepter.

With its power, the friar intends to activate a powerful and unstoppable spell that will make use of the thralls that the priestess surely bound to her by a subtle and sinister curse.

***

Daniel reads a report prepared by Skloe, while Hekate also studies the other half of the report. The dragons lean over their shoulders to also read the information, and Grand Duchess Aramellianna massages her temples as she sips at the rum Daniel gave her. She is already barely conscious, and Yanidere grumbles, “Daniel… Was it a good idea to give my mother rum before the most important meeting of our lives?”

“I’m fine,” murmurs Aramellianna, barely sounding coherent to someone who is familiar with what a drunk person sounds like.

Wenlianna replies on Daniel’s behalf, “Mother deserves to rest, Yani. You’ll be the official Grand Duchess, soon, and… a-as unbelievable as it is, I’m an Empress of the Fievegal.”

“And, I told you I’m fiiine,” adds the matriarch of their family. “It’s just a little… relaxating.”

Hekate snickers a little deviously, while Daniel adds quietly, “The Grand Duchess really does need to relax. The attack rattled her. If anyone else wants a drink, I’ve got plenty.” He adds a little under his breath, “I’d be a sheet-and-a-half to the wind myself if I wasn’t the unfortunate star of this show. Or my chastity wasn’t at risk.”

This evokes a warm laugh from the group, which raises Daniel’s spirits some. He’s still a little affected by killing the assassins, but it might benefit him in the meeting itself to be jaded to the politics.

Gwenesphia asks, “So, how are the reports looking? Anything we need to be worried about?”

Daniel replies as he studies the personnel report, “Crime is starting to rear its ugly head…”

“Crime?” asks the gatonine woman with shock.

Veiranoei is the one to address it politely. “The Fievegal has been expanding its population rapidly by accepting refugees from all over the continent, including the eastern territories. It’s only expected that criminals and saboteurs would work their way in.”

Daniel nods in agreement. “Grendel Six is splitting their forces between the forest investigation and policing, but we’ll need to elaborate on our justice system sooner than I thought.”

Aoloan asks, “I-... Is it safe… For Thymeria to have been returned without… um… under the circumstances?”

“Access to the Citadel itself is restricted,” replies Daniel. “Not even the Unity of the Dragons acolytes can leave or enter for the time being. Speaking of…”

“Roeta is scanning from the skies,” remarks Ryuogriar. “But, assuming the young Bellphine’s prophecy is truthful, there are no signs of the Void artillery.”

“I will not lower my guard for the mana surge I felt that day,” replies Neith. “I’ll never forget it for the rest of my life.”

“I doubt Rikuto would have brought them when he would be in such close proximity to us. It would be hard to precisely hit a target when the area of effect is several square miles in size. That said,... Any thoughts?” Daniel looks to Vaergraes and Senn. The elven mage has been using a series of simple spells to try to diagnose the Uhl’tall Archpriestess for any signs of the potential brainwashing Daniel believes has been used by Thymeria. With Vaergraes, she’s a greater threat if she is able to be ‘activated’ as an enemy.

Senn replies, “I have seen a similar Dawnsight the last time I spoke to Rikuto, though I tried to warn him his own hasty actions would lead to it. If she believes it will be at a castle she doesn’t recognize, it’s very possible Northwall is the target, but there are likely a lot of castles in the world that Bellphine would be unfamiliar with.”

“Even the Stalvaltan castle could be a target, couldn’t it?” offers Yormolett, who is cautiously watching over her mother while the latter sips at her rum. Daniel has a pretty good sense of Aramellianna’s tolerance, so he only gave her enough to get her tipsy. She’s on her last few drops already.

“If you’d like, I can commune with the world,” offers Vaergraes. “But it takes time, and I can’t be in motion.”

Daniel ponders for a moment. Before he can make his decision, Hekate says, “The report says our mana is dangerously close to the minimum amount you set, Daniel. Will… we have to stop using golems?”

He remains quiet, suggesting that he was planning to use golems to take over continuous overwatch from Roeta.

“Where has the mana been going?” asks Kera’tai. “I thought you had the ‘taxes’ being paid by mana donations, plus your generators.”

Hekate explains, “The generators are limited because the water flow isn’t very significant, and the miners are still gathering materials to make concortee before we can make a dam somewhere with a waterfall.”

“It’s ‘conseet’,” corrects Geirahoel confidently.

Reignleif sighs, murmuring with her soft voice, “You’re both wrong. It’s ‘concrete’.”

Geirahoel turns pink from embarrassment, dumbfounded that, once more, her own confidence in learning Daniel’s words has betrayed her. Hekate, however, takes a different approach.

“Nuh-uh! It’s concortee in the Fievegal language.”

The blue dragon doesn’t easily fall for it, narrowing her eyes. “Oh? And what language is the ‘Fievegal’ language?”

This puts Hekate on the spot, causing her ears to go vertically rigid. It’s obvious the semi-official language of the Fievegal is Eastern Imperial Trade solely because it’s the primary language all of the races on both sides of the mountains are likely to share, and further reinforced because it’s the only language of this world the Fievegal’s Emperor is fluent in.

She can’t say it’s English, because there is a growing number of women, and Neith, who can easily refute her, even if Daniel allowed her to make up her own words and claim them as ‘English’.

Hekate finally huffs, crossing her arms and looking away from Reignleif. “Fine! I was wrong! I’m only a woman. Point being, we are using more mana than the Citadel is recovering, which means…” She looks ominously at Daniel, who is forced to agree.

“We’ll keep Roeta on watch until Magnir returns to alternate with her. Have we heard anything about the Fievegal’s wyvern core?”

Kera’tai answers, “The only races comfortable for long periods of time in flight on wyverns, between temperatures and the heights, are the oni and Uhl’tall. Which…”

“Are among the least numerous of our population,” finishes Treai, showing that she has taken some interest in the Fievegal’s state of affairs, at least on a military level.

Daniel sighs. “Ahok is busy, but ask her to task her subordinates with creating suits that use heating crystals so other races can endure cold temperatures. And, throw in the same idea as diving helmets to provide them air. If they make a mechanism to resist the airflow out to maintain a specific pressure inside the helmet, and make that pressure adjustable, we can try to combat the thin oxygen of high altitudes while not wasting the air of a magic crystal unnecessarily. It will be a lot more waste than under water.”

“Leave it to me,” replies Wenlianna, who immediately whipped out her notebook. She shoots a friendly scowl at Daniel, though, teasing, “You know, you have a perfect capable Magic Artisan for a wife-to-be, Daniel.”

He laughs lightly with a playful roll of his eyes. “I have a magic artisan wife who ALSO has to be an Empress sometimes. Such as today.” Daniel scans his crowd of companions. “Is everyone…?”

Just as he does, he notices Vaergraes and Aoloan, who are a few seats apart on opposite sides of the bus, react to something at the same time. The bus has already stopped in the staging area, by the feel of what’s going on, so it has nothing to do with the vehicle.

For Vaergraes, she suddenly winced at something and favored her palm, as if stung by a bee.

Aoloan’s movement, though, is likely what saves everyone, whether Daniel knows it or not.

She winces and gasps out a soft, “Yeowch!” before favoring and looking at her left bicep, and Daniel catches a glimpse, and only a glimpse, of everything he needs to know.

As has been the case for virtually his entire life on Zenkon, Daniel has needed to trust his gut. He has made plenty of mistakes because of it, but he is also only alive because he trusted his instincts and made preparations that he otherwise wouldn’t have wasted time on.

This time, it’s all about reaction time.

In his youth, the mechanic has a memory of a half-assed experiment a college intern was performing on his elementary school class, where the intern wanted to demonstrate the differences between the hand-eye coordination of boys and girls. The experiment was poorly explained, and it had many more variables because of the elementary student helpers participating in the ‘control’ side of the experiment, but it taught Daniel one thing.

Reaction time isn’t nearly as important as having the right reaction.

And, with almost everyone he cares about gathered in one place, Daniel snatches his hand to Nemaisol’s hilt.

***